The Elegies of Tibullus - Being the Consolations of a Roman Lover Done in English Verse

54 Bc-19 Bc Tibullus

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• Publié par: endu
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 62
• Langue: English

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Title: The Elegies of Tibullus

Author: Tibullus

Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9610] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 9, 2003]

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THE ELEGIES OF TIBULLUS

BEING THE CONSOLATIONS OF A ROMAN LOVER DONE IN ENGLISH VERSE BY THEODORE C. WILLIAMS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY (The Riverside Press Cambridge) 1908

TO WILLIAM COE COLLAR HEAD MASTER OF THE ROXBURY LATIN SCHOOL

 

       

Our old master ever young to his old boys: Did Mentor with his mantle thee invest, Or Chiron lend thee his persuasive lyre, Or Socrates, of pedagogues the best, Teach thee the harp-strings of a youth's desire?

PREFACE

Albius Tibullus was a Roman gentleman, whose father fought on Pompey's side. The precise dates of his birth and death are in doubt, and what we know of his life is all in his own poems; except that Horace condoles with him about Glycera, and Apuleius says Delia's real name was Plautia. Horace paid him this immortal compliment: (Epist. 4 bk. I).  "Albi nostrorum sermonum candide judex,  Non tu corpus eras sine pectore; Di tibi formam,  Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi." After his death, Ovid wrote him a fine elegy (p. 115); and Domitius Marsus a neat epigram. The former promised him an immortality equal to Homer's; the latter sent him to Elysium at Virgil's side. These excessive eulogies are the more remarkable in that Tibullus stood, proudly or indolently, aloof from the court. He never flatters Augustus nor mentions his name. He scoffs at riches, glory and war, wanting nothing but to triumph as a lover. Ovid dares to group him with the laurelled shades of Catullus and Gallus, of whom the former had lampooned the divine Julius and the latter had been exiled by Augustus. But in spite of this contemporarysuccès d'estime, Tibullus is clearly a minor poet. He expresses only one aspect of his time. His few themes are oft-repeated and in monotonous rhythms. He sings of nothing greater than his own lost loves. Yet of Delia, Nemesis and Neaera, we learn only that all were fair, faithless and venal. For a man whose ideal of love was life-long fidelity, he was tragically unsuccessful. If this were all, his verse would have perished with that of Macer and Gallus. But it is not all. These love-poems of a private gentleman of the Augustan time, show a delicacy of sentiment almost modern. Of the ribald curses which Catullus hurls after his departing Lesbia, there is nothing. He throws the blame on others: and if, just to frighten, he describes the wretched old age of the girls who never were faithful, it is with a playful tone and hoping such bad luck will never befall any sweet-heart of his. This delicacy and tenderness, with the playful accent, are, perhaps, Tibullus distinctive charm. ' His popularity in 18th century France was very great. The current English version,

Grainger's (1755) with its cheap verse and common-place gallantries, is a stupid echo of the French feeling for Tibullus as an erotic poet. Much better is the witty prose version by the elder Mirabeau, done during the Terror, in the prison at Vincennes, and published after his release, with a ravishing portrait of "Sophie," surrounded by Cupids and billing doves. One of the old Parisian editors dared to say:

" par coeur ce délicieuxTons ceux qui aiment, ou qui ont jamais aimé, savent Tibulle."

But it was unjust to classify Tibullus merely as an erotic poet. The gallants of the ancien régime popular quite werecapable of writing their own valentines. Tibullus was  as a sort of Latin Rousseau. He satirized rank, riches and glory as corrupting man's primitive simplicity. He pled for a return to nature, to country-side, thatched cottages, ploughed fields, flocks, harvests, vintages and rustic holidays. He made this plea, not with an armoury of Greek learning, such as cumber Virgil and Horace, but with an original passion. He cannot speak of the jewelled Roman coquettes without a sigh for those happy times when Phoebus himself tended cattle and lived on curds and whey, all for the love of a king's daughter.

For our own generation Tibullus has another claim to notice. All Augustan writers express their dread and weariness of war. But Tibullus protests as a survivor of the lost cause. He has been, himself, a soldier-lover maddened by separation. As an heir of the old order, he saw how vulgar and mercenary was thisparvenuimperial glory, won at the expense of lost liberties and broken hearts. War, he says, is only the strife of robbers. Its motive is the spoils. It happens because beautiful women want emeralds, Indian slaves an d glimmering silk from Cos. Therefore, of course, we fight. But if Neaera and her kind would eat acorns, as of old, we could burn the navies and build cities without walls.

He was indeed a minor poet. He does not carry forward, like Virgil, the whole heritage from the Greeks, or rise like him to idealizing the master-passion of his own age, that vision of a cosmopolitan world-state, centred at Rome and based upon eternal decrees of Fate and Jove. But neither was he duped, as Virgil was, into mistaking the blood-bought empire of the Caesars for the return of Saturn's reign. Sometimes a minor poet, just by reason of his aloofness from the social trend of his time, may also escape its limitations, and sound some notes which remain forever true to what is unchanging in the human heart. I believe Tibullus has done so.

This translation has been done in the play-time of many busy years. I have used what few helps I could find, especially the Mirabeau, above alluded to. The text is often doubtful. But in so rambling a writer it has not seemed to me that the laborious transpositions of later German editors were important. I have rejected as probably spurious all of the fourth book but two short pieces. While I agree with those who find the third book doubtful, I have included it.

But from scholars I must ask indulgence. I have translated with latitude, considering whole phrases rather than single words. But I have always been faithful to the thought and spirit of the original, except in the few passages where euphemism was required. If the reader who has no Latin, gets a pleasing impression of Tibullus, that is what I have chiefly hoped to do. In my forth-coming translations of theAeneid I have kept stricter

watch upon verbal accuracy, as is due to an author better-known and more to be revered.  THEODORE C. WILLIAMS.  New York, 1905.        

Preface

BOOK I

I.The Simple Life II.Love and Witchcraft III.Sickness and Absence IV.The Art of Conquest V.Country-Life with Delia VI.A Lover's Curses VII.A Desperate Expedient VIII.Messala IX.To Pholoë and Marathus X.To Venal Beauty XI.War is a Crime

BOOK II

CONTENTS

I.A Rustic Holiday II.A Birthday Wish III.My Lady Rusticates IV.On His Lady's Avarice V.The Priesthood of Apollo VI.Let Lovers All Enlist VII. A Voice from the Tomb [Transcriber's Note: Elegy VII listed in Contents, but not in text.]

BOOK III

I.The New-Year's Gift II.He Died for Love III.Riches are Useless IV.A Dream from Phoebus V.To Friends at the Baths

VI.A Fare-Well Toast

BOOK IV

XIII.A Lover's Oath

Ovid's Lament for Tibullus' Death

       

       

BOOK I

ELEGY THE FIRST

THE SIMPLE LIFE

 Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil!  Let endless acres claim thy care!  While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil,  And far-off trumpets scare!

 To me my poverty brings tranquil hours;  My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines;  My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers,  And plenteous native wines.

 I set my tender vines with timely skill,  Or pluck large apples from the bough;  Or goad my lazy steers to work my will,  Or guide my own rude plough.

 Full tenderly upon my breast I bear  A lamb or small kid gone astray;  And yearly worship with my swains prepare,  The shepherd's ancient way.

 I love those rude shrines in a lonely field  Where rustic faith the god reveres,  Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed  By gifts of travellers.

 Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show,  Due tribute to our gods I pour;  O'er Ceres' brows the tasseled wheat I throw,  Or wreathe her temple door.

 My plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm,  By red Priapus sentinelled;  By his huge sickle's formidable charm  The bird thieves are dispelled.

 With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires,  My Lares I revere: not now  As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires  Performed the hallowing vow.

 No herds have I like theirs: I only bring  One white lamb from my little fold,  While my few bondmen at the altar sing  Our harvest anthems old.

 Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight  A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay  To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite,  The best, most ancient way.

 If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven,  If fatter flocks allure them more,  To me the riches to my fathers given  Kind Heaven need not restore.

 My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm  That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest,  While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form  Of her it loves the best.

 My simple cot brings such secure repose,  When so companioned I can lie,  That winds of winter and the whirling snows  Sing me soft lullaby.

 This lot be mine! I envy not their gold  Who rove the furious ocean foam:

 A frugal life will all my pleasures hold,  If love be mine, and home.

 Enough I travel, if I steal away  To sleep at noon-tide by the flow  Of some cool stream. Could India's jewels pay  For longer absence? No!

 Let great Messala vanquish land and sea,  And deck with spoils his golden hall!  I am myself a conquest, and must be  My Delia's captive thrall.

 Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn,  Or brand me with the sluggard's name!  With cheerful hands I'll plant my upland corn,  And live to laugh at Fame.

 If I might hold my Delia to my side,  The bare ground were a happier bed  Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride,  Must mourn for love long dead.

 Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song—  These bring no peace. Befooled by words  Was he who, when in love a victor strong,  Left it for spoils and swords.

 For such let sad Cilicia's captives bleed,  Her citadels his legions hold!  And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed,  In silvered robes or gold!

 These eyes of mine would look on only thee  In that last hour when light shall fail.  Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be  In my cold fingers pale!

 With thine own arms my lifeless body lay  On that cold couch so soon on fire!  Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay,  And weep beside my pyre!

 And weep! Ah, me! Thy heart will wear no steel  Nor be stone-cold that rueful day:  Thy faithful grief may all true lovers feel  Nor tearless turn away!

 Yet ask I not that thou shouldst vex my shade  With cheek all wan and blighted brow:  But, O, to-day be love's full tribute paid,  While the swift Fates allow.

 Soon Death, with shadow-mantled head, will come,  Soon palsied age will creep our way,  Bidding love's flatteries at last be dumb,  Unfit for old and gray.

 But light-winged Venus still is smiling fair:  By night or noon we heed her call;  To pound on midnight doors I still may dare,  Or brave for love a brawl.

 I am a soldier and a captain good  In love's campaign, and calmly yield  To all who hunger after wounds and blood,  War's trumpet-echoing field.

 Ye toils and triumphs unto glory dear!  Ye riches home from conquest borne!  If my small fields their wonted harvest bear,  Both wealth and want I scorn!

       

ELEGY THE SECOND

LOVE AND WITCHCRAFT

 Bring larger bowls and give my sorrows wine,  By heaviest slumbers be my brain possessed!  Soothe my sad brows with Bacchus' gift divine,  Nor wake me while my hapless passions rest!

 For Delia's jealous master at her door  Has set a watch, and bolts it with stern steel.  May wintry tempests strike it o'er and o'er,  And amorous Jove crash through with thunder-peal!

 My sighs alone, O Door, should pierce thee through,

 Or backward upon soundless hinges turn.  The curses my mad rhymes upon thee threw,—  Forgive them!—Ah! in my own breast they burn!

 May I not move thee to remember now  How oft, dear Door, thou wert love's place of prayer?  While with fond kiss and supplicating vow,  I hung thee o'er with many a garland fair?

 In vain the prayer! Thine own resolve must break  Thy prison, Delia, and its guards evade.  Bid them defiance for thy lover's sake!  Be bold! The brave bring Venus to their aid.

 'Tis Venus guides a youth through doors unknown;  'Tis taught of her, a maid with firm-set lips  Steals from her soft couch, silent and alone,  And noiseless to her tryst securely trips.

 Her art it is, if with a husband near,  A lady darts a love-lorn look and smile  To one more blest; but languid sloth and fear  Receive not Venus' perfect gift of guile.

 Trust Venus, too, t' avert the wretched wrath  Of footpad, hungry for thy robe and ring!  So safe and sacred is a lover's path,  That common caution to the winds we fling.

 Oft-times I fail the wintry frost to feel,  And drenching rains unheeded round me pour,  If Delia comes at last with mute appeal,  And, finger on her lip, throws wide the door.

 Away those lamps! Thou, man or maid, away!  Great Venus wills not that her gifts be scanned.  Ask me no names! Walk lightly there, I pray!  Hold back thy tell-tale torch and curious hand!

 Yet fear not! Should some slave our loves behold,  Let him look on, and at his liking stare!  Hereafter not a whisper shall be told;  By all the gods our innocence he'll swear.

 Or should one such from prudent silence swerve  The chatterer who prates of me and thee  Shall learn, too late, why Venus, whom I serve,

 Was born of blood upon a storm-swept sea.

 Nay, even thy husband will believe no ill.  All this a wondrous witch did tell me true:  One who can guide the stars to work her will,  Or turn a torrent's course her task to do.

 Her spells call forth pale spectres from their graves,  And charm bare bones from smoking pyres away:  'Mid trooping ghosts with fearful shriek she raves,  Then sprinkles with new milk, and holds at bay.

 She has the power to scatter tempests rude,  And snows in summer at her whisper fall;  The horrid simples by Medea brewed  Are hers; she holds the hounds of Hell in thrall.

 For me a charm this potent witch did weave;  Thrice if thou sing, then speak with spittings three,  Thy husband not one witness will believe,  Nor his own eyes, if our embrace they see!

 But tempt not others! He will surely spy  All else—to me, me only, magic-blind!  And, hark! the hag with drugs, she said, would try  To heal love's madness and my heart unbind.

 One cloudless night, with smoky torch, she burned  Black victims to her gods of sorcery;  Yet asked I not love's loss, but love returned,  And would not wish for life, if robbed of thee.

 

 

 

 

ELEGY THE THIRD

SICKNESS AND ABSENCE

 Am I abandoned? Does Messala sweep  Yon wide Aegean wave, not any more  He, nor my mates, remembering where I weep,  Struck down by fever on this alien shore?